


history, like love

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Soulmates AU, new girl au??? but you need no knowledge of new girl. i just took the roommates plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 00:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12829848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: There are planets orbiting her eyes and her mouth tastes like the ocean; in her head she hears a shatter, like her soul has pried her ribs apart in a desperate, aching attempt to reach his. “If I could have picked anybody,” he murmurs, “it would have been you.”These words hurt just as much as the truth always does.





	history, like love

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at twelveclara.tumblr.com!

When Clara Oswald answers an ad seeking a fourth roommate in a flat in Westminster, she never expects to meet her soulmate. She’s nearly forgotten all about the concept, actually, and it’s such an archaic notion, anyway - loads of people go their entire lives without meeting their soulmate; it’s not exactly a perfect system, and the world’s a huge place. People’ve learned to go about their business, waiting, hoping, but moving on nonetheless.  
  
So when Clara Oswald answers an ad seeking a fourth roommate in a flat in Westminster, she never expects to meet her soulmate.  
  
But she does.  
  
\--  
  
When she arrives at the advertised flat for her interview and sees the people who’d _placed_ the ad, it doesn’t actually cross her mind that moving in with three men is probably not the best - or the safest - idea. She doesn’t know them, or their motives, or their morals. They’re all bigger than her - then again, who isn’t - and could probably overpower her if they wanted to, even though she _is_ trained in various types of martial arts.  
  
But none of that actually crosses her mind because within minutes, it becomes clear to her how _simple_ they are.  
  
One >of them is a complete moron who seems to have memorized every pick-up line in existence, and flings them all at her in quick succession as if he thinks they’ll work; another is so flustered by her that he mostly just stares awkwardly, like he’s never met a girl in his life; and the third has zero interest in apparently anything happening around him, tired and expressionless. He’s the one who questions her, in a droll, bored sort of voice, sitting on the couch, elbow resting on the arm. He’s also the only one who actually forces her to retract her idea about all of them being _simple_ .  
  
They’re all rather good-looking, but something about him draws her in: he’s older - probably by about twenty-so years, give or take - with ruffled silver hair and glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, covering his piercingly blue eyes. He’s wearing a black jumper over a grey shirt and jeans, feet tucked into heavy boots.  
  
“Clara,” he says, and she loves the way his lips shape her name, Scottish accent thick. “What do you do for a living?”  
  
“I’m a teacher,” she says. “Secondary, English Literature.”  
  
“Oh, Jesus,” the other man says, and she realizes he’s American. “Three teachers? In one apartment?”  
  
“Sorry?” she asks, startled.  
  
The older man half-smiles. “I’m a university professor, astrophysics and cosmology. Danny teaches maths, also secondary.”  
  
The man apparently named Danny grins nervously and offers her a wave. “Cheers. What school?”  
  
“Coal Hill,” she answers. “Starting next week.”  
  
“I’m there as well,” he says, pleased, and the older man clears his throat.  
  
“ _Anyway,_ ” he interrupts, like this is an interrogation. “How old are you?”  
  
“Twenty-nine.”  
  
“And why do you want to live here?”  
  
She blinks. “Pardon?”  
  
“You’re young, pretty, job isn’t too bad - why d’you want to live with _us_ ?” he asks. “No other options? Have you been turned down everywhere else due to reasons you've yet to disclose?”  
  
He says this all very fast, but she understands the line of questioning. She tries not to blush at the fact that he’d called her _pretty._ “I was sort-of a nanny,” she explains, “for some family friends whose mother had passed. But they’ve found someone permanent. I was only ever helping out. I don’t know anyone else in the city.”  
  
“Where are you from originally?" he prods. “Lancashire, but--”  
  
“Blackpool.”  
  
“Ah.” He studies her for a moment and shrugs. “Either of you have anything to add?”  
  
Danny mumbles something unintelligible, averting his gaze.  
  
“Erm, sorry,” Clara says, “but what are your names?”  
  
“Oh, where are our manners?” The American man says, smiling handsomely. He leans forward to shake her hand, but kisses it instead, like she’s royalty; and absolutely nothing happens. No stars, no explosions, whatever. Neither of them are too upset about it. “I’m Captain Jack Harkness.”  
  
Danny says, elbowing him, “ _Ex-_ captain.”  
  
Jack rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Used to sail cruise liners--”  
  
“You worked on cargo ships.”  
  
“ _Jesus,_ ” Jack says again. “I’m trying to make an impression, Danny, can you fuck off?”  
  
Clara laughs. “Pleasure,” she says.  
  
“And I’m Danny Pink,” he says, properly introducing himself, also shaking her hand. He waits a split second, and she actually _sees_ the disappointment flash across his face before he drops his arm. She can’t blame him for wishing she was his soulmate. She’s a fucking catch, and she knows it.  
  
She turns automatically toward the older man, but he doesn’t make a move. He just says, “I’m the Doctor.”  
  
“He’s not very touchy-feely,” Jack informs her. “Hates a hug. I try all the time.”  
  
“Yes, and I wish you wouldn’t--”  
  
Danny says loudly, stalling them, “So, I think that’s a consensus.” He falters when he notices she’s staring at him again, but manages, “D’you wanna move in? We’ll show you the room.”  
  
“That’s all?" she asks. “That’s your whole interview?”  
  
Jack laughs. “Honestly,” he says, “as long as you can pay rent, I don’t think we care. Also, you’re hot.”  
  
Like she said: simple. “ _Really,_ ” she enunciates. “And let’s relax on the objectification, thanks.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry. Just speaking the truth.”  
  
The Doctor laughs and sits up, and she can feel him staring before her eyes have even flickered over to him. He says, “You don’t _look_ like a mad-axe murderer, but I suppose only time will tell.” He offers her a half-smile and her heart trips a beat, once, briefly. “Come on. Have a look.”  
  
“If you are,” Jack adds, “kill Danny first.”  
  
They show her around, and it’s quite a spacious flat for its location - off Edgware, above a Pret. The kitchen is modernized, and they’ve a washer and dryer, which is ideal - and the bedrooms are a decent size. The Doctor’s bedroom is across the hall from where hers would be, and Jack and Danny live on the other side of the flat.  
  
“Unfortunately,” the Doctor says, rubbing the back of his head, “you’ll have to share the loo with all of us. It’s huge, though. Is that a problem? We can devise a schedule.”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine,” she brushes off. “I trust you’re all respectable.” She eyes Jack. “ _Mostly_ respectable, at least.”  
  
“Is that a yes?” Jack asks excitedly. “It’d be great to have a woman around. Keep me in check,” he winks.  
  
But it isn’t Jack who sells her on it, or even Danny, silently begging her with his eyes. She looks at the Doctor and says, for reasons she can’t explain, “And you? Are you alright with this?”  
  
He meets her gaze, hands shoved in his pockets, and answers quietly, “I think it would be nice.”  
  
“Okay,” she says, her mouth dry, and that’s all there is to it.  
  
\--  
  
Living with them turns out to be the most ridiculous, hilarious, trying decision Clara’s ever made.  
  
They’re the oddest conglomeration of people she can imagine sharing the same space; the Doctor had originally lived there alone - he doesn’t brag about his wealth, but he’s definitely better off than the rest of them; Jack tells her the flat had apparently been some kind of studio the Doctor had refurbished and done insane work to, thus the one bathroom - and he’d been a regular at the pub Jack works at, who had been kicked out of his own flat after he’d snogged his flatmate’s girlfriend. The Doctor had allowed him to stay for awhile, to get on his feet, but he never left.  
  
Danny had been a soldier who’d returned to London fucked up and desperate, and Jack had brought him back to the flat after getting trashed one night; and though Clara had come to realize the Doctor didn’t support the army, or wars in general, he’d apparently been a decent enough man to let Danny take an extra bedroom. Her part in the story had come much later, after Jack finally complained them all to death about how getting a fourth roommate would cheapen rent, and they gave in, mostly so he’d shut the fuck up.  
  
“I want to get a sex swing,” he tells her earnestly. “We’d be the perfect pair to test it out.”  
  
Danny calls, “ _Jar!_ ”  
  
Jack drops a pound into a container labeled _Douchebag Jar,_ grinning unrepentantly.  
  
“How American of you,” she says, holding in a laugh.  
  
“ _Wanker Jar_ just didn't sound right,” Danny supplies the context.  
  
Living with them is the most exhausting, unbelievable, entertaining experience Clara’s ever had. But the surprising twist is that - she _loves_ it.  
  
They settle into routines. The Doctor, Clara, and Jack alternate cooking. Danny can’t cook to save his goddamn life, but Jack always makes him slice the vegetables, just so he’s contributing _something_ . The Doctor and Clara both clean. Jack sits around drinking and working out on his days off, or before he heads into the pub; sometimes the Doctor joins him, reading on the couch - he’s an avid reader, and doesn’t mind lending Clara his books. His hours are different than Clara’s and Danny’s, classes scattered throughout the day, whereas they’re pretty similar; though Clara’s out early Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  
  
She quickly learns that Jack hits on anything with a pulse, and easily navigates through his advances until she manipulates him into friendship and _just_ friendship; Danny’s got a very obvious thing for her, but she’s still on the fence as to what she wants to do it about it; and then there’s the Doctor, who’s mysterious, reserved, outrageously intelligent, and somewhat abrasive to the degree of rudeness without realizing it. But he’s nice to talk to when he’s around, even if she hasn’t spent a lot of time with him yet, and they’ll all hang out at the pub Jack works at as a bartender on their nights off. She definitely spends a lot more time hammered now than she used to.  
  
“Forty degrees,” Jack says to Clara, totally nonsensically. “Down the bar. He’s _staring_ at you. Look, but don’t look like you’re looking.”  
  
All four of them turn to look at once, of course. He seems slightly startled by all the pairs of eyes on him and averts his gaze hastily. Danny frowns and says, “Nothin’ special.”  
  
Jack snorts. “You _would_ say that, dumbass. Why don’t you just ask her out?”  
  
“Sitting right here, Jack,” Clara reminds him, draining the rest of her cider.  
  
“Well, it’s not like he’s making a move on his own--”  
  
“I fucking swear,” Danny says, flushed and embarrassed. “Shut the fuck up. You’re such an asshole.”  
  
“Watch, Danny, it’s easy.” Jack flings his dishrag over his shoulder and leans across the countertop, smiling with his teeth as Clara raises an eyebrow. He says flirtatiously, “Hey, gorgeous. How d’you feel about grabbing a drink with me sometime?”  
  
“Like I’d rather die,” she says cheerfully. “I _would_ like another drink, though. And that’s five quid in the jar when we’re home.”  
  
“How about I just give you the next one on the house?” Jack bargains.  
  
She grins, accepting. “Cheers.”  
  
The Doctor laughs, sitting on Danny’s other side. “What a nice example you’ve set for the lad, Jack.”  
  
“Fuck,” Danny says.  
  
“How’s teaching, Clara?" the Doctor asks, disrupting the tension, leaning on his arm to look around Danny at her. “Better than your first week?”  
  
“Loads,” she replies, relieved. “God, what a bloody nightmare that was. I’ve settled in a bit, though.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
Danny grimaces. “My first week was absolutely awful. I made a girl cry on accident.”  
  
“How?” Clara asks, bemused.  
  
“She left me a love letter and I told her she was a tad too young for me,” he says lowly. “But another student overheard and made fun of her.”  
  
Jack sniggers, sliding Clara’s glass over to her. “Just a _tad_ too young? Don’t give them hope, Danny.”  
  
“That’s disgusting, Jack, you know what I meant.” Danny berates him, and then sighs. “He’s still looking at you, Clara.”  
  
She glances back over, and he’s not too bad; attractive, probably a bit older than her, wearing a suit and an overcoat. She says, “I dunno. What d’you think?”  
  
Jack says, “I’d do him.” Danny just frowns deeper. But it’s the Doctor who surprises her by replying, “Might as well talk to him. No harm in that. But only if you fancy to.”  
  
She’s thoughtfully quiet for a second, and then shrugs, taking another sip. She echoes, “Might as well.”  
  
They all watch her walk over to the man, sitting in the empty stool next to him. He chats her up for a few minutes, and she seems to be enjoying herself; the man’s obviously taken with her.  
  
Danny groans, dropping his head against the bar. Jack says, “Told you. You’ve gotta go for it. I mean, have you _seen_ Clara? She’s outrageously hot.”  
  
“I don’t wanna watch them touch,” Danny mumbles against the wood. “Tell me if fireworks go off, or whatever.”  
  
The Doctor’s observing them out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing,” he confirms, after he watches Clara pat him on the arm. “Just two people in a pub, unattached.”  
  
“Thank God,” Danny says, and Jack hands him a gin and tonic.  
  
Surprisingly, Clara returns moments later. The Doctor asks, “Not your type?”  
  
She shrugs, shaking her head. “He’s waiting for his soulmate,” she says.  
  
“Ah, one of _those._ ” Jack rolls his eyes, pouring himself and the Doctor a shot of rum. “Aren’t we all?”  
  
\--  
  
Danny’s attraction to her grows over time, but then, so does her attraction to the Doctor.  
  
She hides it well; pretends it’s a coincidence they’re in the same room so often, so close together, but not touching. Never touching. They relax on opposite ends of the sofa and read. They sit at the kitchen table and grade papers, speaking hilariously incorrect answers aloud, making the other laugh. Danny and Jack drink beer and watch football. The Doctor doesn’t, and she personally hates sports; they chat idly about their days, interests, hobbies. Danny hovers, trying to work up the nerve to ask her out and failing. She doesn’t help him out any, or take pity on him.  
  
The most he manages to do is ask her if she’d like to go grab groceries at Tesco’s with him, to which she halfheartedly glances up from doing literally nothing except pretending not to watch the Doctor turn a page every two minutes while her own book sits untouched on her lap, and says, “Oh, no thanks,” leaving him to trail out uncomfortably.  
  
Twenty minutes later, the Doctor puts his novel aside and stretches; Clara stares unabashedly. He says, “Thinking about grabbing a coffee. Join me?”  
  
“Yes.” The word shoots out of her mouth like an arrow. “I'd love to.”  
  
Jack coughs in the kitchen, but they both ignore him and head out.  
  
She _thinks_ she hides it well, but Jack confronts her on her three-week anniversary of living there after witnessing the earlier event. He enters the bathroom while she’s taking a shower and shuts the door; she peeks her head out from behind the curtain and rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”  
  
He quirks an eyebrow. He says, “So.”  
  
She’s washing her face, so she can’t really answer. She hums in confusion and tries to repeat, “So?”  
  
He smirks. “What a rejection that was,” he says casually, reaching for his toothbrush.  
  
She rubs the soap out of her eyes. “No idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Oh, _oh_ kay,” he replies wisely. “I see. We’re playing _that_ game.”  
  
“What game?" she asks, understandably baffled. He says weird shit all the time, so it’s not unusual for him to pop out of the blue with some random out-of-context or inappropriate statement, usually followed by someone screaming _Jar!_  
  
Unfortunately for her, this isn’t one of those times. She glances at him around the curtain again. His smirk grows wide, showing all of his teeth. He looks like a shark, and for a moment, she gets a terrible image of him literally ripping her to pieces. He says, “That game where you pretend you _don’t_ have a giant crush on the Doctor, and I call your lying ass out on it.”  
  
She actually freezes. Damn him for being so annoyingly astute without even trying; it’s probably because the situation has absolutely nothing to do with him. She shushes him hurriedly, putting a finger over her lips - he’s talking rather loudly over the running water, and she imagines the Doctor outside the door, listening to every word.  
  
She says, “Are you fucking _mad?_ ”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I _don’t_ want to _talk about this,_ ” she hisses. “And I don’t want _him_ finding out, so shut your damn mouth, are we clear?”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” he says, backing away with his hands in the air. He mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key, grinning hugely.  
  
“I want you dead,” she mouths.  
  
He winks and says, “At least he likes you, too,” and squirts toothpaste on his toothbrush, shoving it in his mouth.  
  
It takes her one - two - three--  
  
She yells, “Wait, _what?!_ ”  
  
It’s too late. He shrugs, pointing at his toothbrush, miming that he can’t answer. She scowls at him and says, “Take it out of your mouth--” But he shakes his head in confusion, acting like he can’t hear her, spits into the sink. She waves impatiently. “ _Jack_ \--”  
  
He turns to leave and calls over his shoulder, “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your shower!”  
  
The door slams behind him, and she screams, “Get back here!”  
  
She can hear him cackling maniacally all the way to his room.  
  
\--  
  
Clara’s watching the morning news with Danny, drinking tea on opposite ends of the couch. They’re the only two up and awake. Jack’s door is open, leading them to believe he’d spent the night somewhere else, which isn’t unusual. Danny starts casually talking about work, and she gives him dull responses, mostly disinterested - until he brings up Courtney Woods, the school’s residential _disruptive influence._ They laugh and laugh, sharing stories about her and other awful pupils, until Danny apparently finally relaxes enough to find the courage to ask her out.  
  
He starts, “So, Clara, I was thinking...maybe you and I could go--”  
  
The Doctor picks exactly that moment to traipse into the room, disheveled and tired, clearly having just woken up. He says, unknowingly interrupting, “G’morning.” His voice is low and deep. Oh, _fuck_ .  
  
His hair is in disarray and his glasses are on, but he isn’t wearing a shirt and his grey sweatpants are low on his hips. He’s more muscular and lean than she’d thought, and Clara’s positive she might die, right now, and she’s totally fine with it.  
  
She breathes out, “Hi,” trying not to make her interest blatantly obvious. She never sees him like this. He’s usually put together by the time he makes an appearance, and this - this is _torture._  
  
Danny says grumpily, “Morning,” and then attempts to reclaim her attention. “Anyway, as I was saying--”  
  
“Is there coffee?" the Doctor asks obliviously, checking the pantry for beans. The muscles in his back shift attractively underneath his skin when he moves. She’s probably salivating at this point.  
  
“Not made,” she answers, voice cracking once. “But I’ve an unopened French dark roast in my cupboard if you’d like it.”  
  
He glances at her over his shoulder and offers her a grin. “Thanks. I’ll have to take you out to return the favour, sometime. I’d fetch, but I’m not the fetching sort.”  
  
Oh, my _God,_ he isn’t even actually _hitting_ on her and he manages to ask her on a date more casually and easily than Danny has in a month. Granted, it’s not a real date, and he’s clearly just being polite, but even so--  
  
“I’ll hold you to it,” she quips, smiling without being able to stop herself. His grin widens and he busies himself with the coffee machine.  
  
Danny is exuding disappointment by the time she turns back to him. She says, “Sorry, you were saying?”  
  
He opens his mouth--  
  
“Clara, aren’t you going to be late?” Jack points out, sticking his head out of his room. They all start, not realizing he’d been home the entire time. She checks her watch hastily.  
  
She swears. “Sorry, Danny, I’ve gotta run. Thanks, Jack.” She hurriedly grabs her purse, running a hand through her hair and heading for the door. Jack winks at her. She says, “See you.”  
  
Danny slumps against the couch. “Are you all fucking _serious_ ?" he shoots at both of them, pissed off.  
  
The Doctor gives him a baffled look. “What?”  
  
Jack hums, ducking back into his room. “No idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
\--  
  
It gets harder and harder to deal with, after that: she starts noticing small, accidental quirks of the Doctor’s that turn her on immensely, and she can’t explain why: he has a habit of worrying a fingernail between his teeth, ruffling his hair when he’s not sure what to say, pushing his glasses up his nose. She bites her lip and crosses her legs and tries not to think about any of it. She’s so unbelievably drawn to him and she’s positive, from her perspective, that it’s completely one-sided. He likes her as a friend and that’s all. Jack had just been riling her up, she’s sure of it.  
  
But after another well-timed interruption by the Doctor just as Danny’s about to invite her out for tea, Jack drags her into his room and shuts the door while the two men bicker about something seemingly unrelated, but is almost definitely about her. He says, “ _See?_ ”  
  
She stares blankly at him. “What?”  
  
“Oh, come on, Clara,” he says, exasperated. “Do you seriously not get what’s going on here?”  
  
She waits for a continuation, and when there isn’t one, she answers slowly, “Erm, no?”  
  
He throws up his hands dramatically, and then places them gently on her shoulders, staring her dead in the eye. “Let me rephrase,” he says. “Do you seriously think the Doctor is _this_ thick that he just _happens_ to interrupt you and Danny every single time Danny’s about to ask you out?”  
  
“Yes?" she answers dubiously, but it sounds weak to even her own ears.  
  
“ _No_ ,” he says instantly, before the word has even finished leaving her mouth. “You idiot. He’s doing it on purpose.”  
  
“How do you know?" she questions, crossing her arms. “Some kind of actual proof would be nice, Jack, not just some shit about him telling you with his body language.”  
  
“For the record, I’m an excellent body language interpreter, it’s the reason I’m so good in bed--”  
  
“Don’t make me say it,” she warns impatiently.  
  
“Okay, okay,” he hastily backtracks, broke enough as it is. “He never used to be out this much. Like, he’d spend all his free time in his room, where we couldn’t disturb him. But now _you’re_ here, and he basically plans his days around being in the same place as you as often as possible.” He rolls his eyes. “He’s just being petty, with Danny. He doesn’t know how to deal with it.”  
  
Her heart sort of stumbles over itself, conflicted. She can’t deny that level of reasoning or observation, but still, it’s hard for her to believe - he’s so enigmatic and difficult to interpret; it drives her insane.  
  
“I need to process this,” she says, brushing by him and back into the kitchen, where the two men are now arguing about the proper way to water the only plant in the flat, for some inexplicable, bizarre reason. They falter for one second when she walks past them to get to her room, but by the time she closes her door, they’re at it again.  
  
She can’t help it. She slides to the floor and laughs.  
  
\--  
  
They’re all drinking heavily one Friday night - Jack’s hosting some promotion down at the pub, and they’re here to support him - and it’s one of those annoying gatherings where people brush up against each other on purpose, hoping for sparks, for the universe to implode are stars to burn behind their eyes. She’s sitting at the bar with Danny and the Doctor, ignoring it. She’s leaning her chin in her palm talking to the Doctor as some woman chats up Danny, and he isn’t interested but he can’t seem to shake her off.  
  
“So you never found yours?” Clara asks, too smashed to notice how personal of a question it is.  
  
He doesn’t mind, though. He shakes his head. “No,” he answers. “Most people don’t, though, do they?”  
  
She shrugs. She doesn’t know the statistics. “Maybe.”  
  
“Do you know anyone it’s happened to?" he prods. His stare is a little glassy and unfocused.  
  
“My parents,” she says. “Few friends. Recently, the Theatre teacher.” The woman had met hers while visiting Paris on a trip with family; they’d run into each other in a store. Perfectly ordinary, serendipitous. Like most.  
  
He confesses, “I’ve always been curious.”  
  
“You don’t touch anyone, though,” she points out, literally, raising and dropping her arm. “You’d never find them, anyway.”  
  
He looks away, but he doesn’t deny it. He says lowly, “I don’t know if I want to, now.”  
  
She blinks owlishly. It’s an answer she’s never heard before, from anyone. “Why not?”  
  
He hesitates, and pounds back one of the many shots Jack had placed in front of them. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, “Because I don’t want to be disappointed.”  
  
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the part of her brain that’s still sober thinks, _I’m disappointed, because it isn’t you._  
  
“I would be okay if I didn’t,” she confesses, staring at the amber liquid.  
  
His eyebrows raise, equally surprised. “Why?”  
  
“My mum died,” she says, and she doesn’t know why she’s telling him this. “And I saw what it did to my dad. It was...horrible.” Her voice is quiet. He has to strain to hear. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed.”  
  
He has no response to that. He slides her a shot, frowning. She pounds it back gratefully; she wants to erase their conversation from her memory.  
  
\--  
  
She and Jack, surprisingly, bond over the fact that they _aren’t_ waiting for their soulmates. They go on strings of dates with people who don’t shatter the world around them, but are still beautiful and charming and fun, and that matters just as much as anything.  
  
“And you’re missing out on _great_ sex,” Jack tells Danny and the Doctor as he escorts a handsome young man to the front door, who smiles awkwardly as he leaves. Clara turns a page of the newspaper and says, without even glancing up, “That’s a pound.”  
  
Danny snorts. “Still, though,” he says, when Jack’s one-night stand has left. “Nothing compared to the real thing, innit?”  
  
“The ‘ _real thing_ ’?" the Doctor quotes, in a judgmental sort of voice. Clara senses a fight coming on.  
  
“You know,” Danny says. “That’s why most people don’t date around. Because nobody can compete with your _soulmate,_ should you ever meet them or whatever.”  
  
He’s not wrong; the notion is archaic, sure, but it still _happens_ , and they’ve all heard the classic tragedy about two people falling madly in love, only for one of them to meet their soulmate and nothing else in the universe to compare, including their previous partner. Clara grimaces. It’s really not nice to think about, and it’s why the majority of people refrain from becoming seriously involved with someone they’re not meant to be with.  
  
“Well, sure,” Jack responds dismissively. “But maybe my quest for mind-blowing sex will result in me finding my soulmate.”  
  
“Really?” Clara asks, smile toying about her mouth.  
  
He laughs. “No,” he says, and that’s more like him. “But it’s always a possibility. Either way, I’m still getting a good fu--”  
  
The Doctor sighs loudly. “If you finish that sentence, it’s another pound.”  
  
“Clara does it, too,” Jack points out, dragging her love life into it. “She has a date _tonight._ ”  
  
She avoids looking at Danny, whose pouting is so apparent she can literally feel it. Whatever. Not her fault he can’t work up the nerve. “Sure do. With a doctor.”  
  
The Doctor drops the spoon he’s holding, flustered and caught off-guard. Jack smacks the back of his head. “She said _a_ doctor, not _the_ Doctor. Relax. You’re so uncool.”  
  
She’s not sure what to make of the display, so she just shrugs and says, “It’s nothing special. Just drinks. Not even sure if I _want_ to sleep with him, yet.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t you?” Jack pries, eyes comically wide, like he doesn’t understand the concept.  
  
She pauses thoughtfully before flipping the paper over again. “Something about doctors,” she answers, shuddering. “I feel like - they get all _technical_ about it, y’know? Like, ‘Oh, your g-spot, I took an entire course on that in year three--’”  
  
Danny chokes on his coffee and it sprays out of his mouth, onto the kitchen island and all over his shirt. Jack’s guffawing, in absolute hysterics, his hands on his knees.  
  
The Doctor shakes his head, unable to repress a smirk, and says, “Jesus Christ, Clara. _Jar._ ”  
  
\--  
  
Clara goes on three dates with the doctor - the other doctor, not _the_ Doctor - never sleeps with him, and then cuts it off completely. She lays against the armrest of the sofa, her feet across Jack’s lap, holding an entire bottle of champagne to her chest. She’s not sure where they’d gotten it, but she’s going to drink it.  
  
He asks, “So what was wrong with this one?” And tickles the bottom of her foot playfully.  
  
She snaps her leg back, giggling. She answers, “He was boring.”  
  
“ _Boring_ ?" the Doctor echoes, and grins. “Mr. Medical Miracle? Dull? You don’t say.”  
  
She laughs loudly. They keep coming up with ridiculous nicknames for all the people she and Jack go out with more than once, and this guy had told the same story - multiple times - about how he’d performed a c-section in a stalled lift. “Oh, come off it,” she says, sighing.  
  
“You’d have thought he _invented_ modern medicine, the way he went on and on about it,” the Doctor points out. “I know more about laparoscopic appendectomies than I want to. Which isn’t even an interesting organ, let alone _surgery_ .”    
  
She thinks about telling him off, but, well, he’s right. “Thus, the reason I won’t be seeing him again,” she responds.  
  
Jack’s still snickering; Clara lightly kicks his thigh. The Doctor says, “You can shut the fuck up, Jack - you’re no better. Remember your brief infatuation with the _ventriloquist_ ?”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Danny groans. “He used to mute the TV and provide his own dialogue, and then laugh at his own stupid fucking jokes. I thought about throwing him out the window more than once.”  
  
“Clara went out with that girl who was obsessed with _The Great British Bake Off_ ,” Jack counters, “and she couldn’t bake _at all._ She broke two of our fucking stove burners.”  
  
“That was me,” Clara admits, raising a hand lazily. “I was trying to make a souffle. She broke the oven, though.”  
  
The Doctor snickers. “Either way, Jack,” he starts, “you’ve racked up a _string_ of offenses. We could go on and on about the gems you’ve brought home for hours.” He raises his fingers, ticking off descriptions. “There was the bloke with all the piercings who tried to tattoo you in your sleep--”  
  
Danny joins in. “The woman whose turn-ons included drinking an entire carton of _my_ milk while you watched--”  
  
“The woman who tied you up and stole all of your money and your phone, and then left--”  
  
“Okay, okay, we get it,” Jack says, while Clara laughs hysterically at all the poor decisions he’s made. “We’ve all dated some fucked up people whose actions were questionable at best. You got me. I’m _flawed._ ” He smirks. “At least it’s my _only_ flaw, and it isn’t my _dick_ \--”  
  
All three of them simultaneously shout, “ _Jar!_ ”  
  
“And _regardless,_ ” Jack continues, undisturbed, “the Doctor’s last fling _literally tried_ to murder him.”  
  
Clara glances at him in horror. The Doctor shrugs. “I lived. It was only a minor stab wound.”  
  
Danny raises his beer. “To River,” he toasts. “Never met a better psychopath.”  
  
Her jaw hangs open briefly, terrified and amused; she supposes the humor comes in the fact that he _didn’t_ die. After a moment, she lets it go and pats Jack’s knee, intending to comfort him.  
  
But she locks eyes with the Doctor and the sentence slips out of her mouth. “Well, I’m sure the right person is out there somewhere.”  
  
It takes the Doctor a second, but he agrees. “Yeah,” he says, staring back at her with an intensity. “I’m sure they are.”  
  
\--  
  
They don’t touch. They never touch. Except she’s forgotten that fact.  
  
After two months, she’s _sure_ they’ve touched. In passing, maybe, squeezing by each other to get to the kitchen. Walking side-by-side to the pub. Handing off a plate to the other at dinner. They’ve spent a surprising amount of time together; there’s no way their hands haven’t brushed at _some_ point. It stops becoming something she even thinks about, because logistically speaking, they _must_ have.  
  
They’re grading coursework on the sofa one Tuesday evening with a bottle of red wine; Jack’s working, and Danny’s in his room, doing God knows what. _Probably getting himself off_ , the Doctor murmurs under his breath, crass and rude. She laughs at something one of her students has written and he glances up, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger, and her laughter dies slightly. It stills turns her on.  
  
He asks, “What is it?”  
  
She gives him the workbook. One of the questions had been to describe why the title _The Time Machine_ was an important step in science fiction literature, and one boy had written, _Pretty self-explanatory, innit? Wells was a time traveler who went back in time and “invented” the phrase._  
  
The Doctor laughs, too. “Tragic you can’t give him credit.”  
  
“Truly,” she agrees, grinning.  
  
Before he passes it back over, he reaches for the bottle. “More wine?”  
  
“Lovely, thanks,” she says gratefully, extending her glass. He pours the liquid carefully, trying not to spill on their rug, and adds some to his own before setting the the bottle perfectly within the red-ring stain he’s already created on their coffee table. She’s still holding her glass when he passes her back the workbook. She reaches for it, smile playing on her lips, and her fingers dust the underside of the sheet and skid against--  
  
The universe explodes underneath her skin.  
  
That’s the only way she can describe it. Her heart melts into its own sun, burning endlessly, brightly, brutally hot and pounding. The stars twist and curl themselves around her veins, gouging into muscle. There are planets orbiting in her eyes and her mouth tastes like the ocean; in her head she hears a shatter, like her soul has pried her ribs apart in a desperate, aching attempt to reach his.  
  
They’re staring into each other’s eyes, unmoving, unprocessing. Both their jaws are hanging open.  
  
Danny comes skidding into the room, socks sliding against the wood. He’s flushed and panicking. “What was that?" he exclaims worriedly. “What happened?”  
  
His voice seems to shock them both out of it - they snap their hands away instantly, her workbook falling to the ground. She vaguely realizes the shattering sound had been _her_ , dropping her wine glass, the rim in a hundred fractured pieces scattered across the floor. She says dazedly, “Erm.”  
  
The Doctor’s voice is shaking. “There was a noise,” he says, haphazardly throwing a lie together. “It was - loud, that’s all. Sounded like a car backfired. Startled us, I suppose.”  
  
“I didn’t hear anything,” Danny says.  
  
“Yeah, well, you were probably too preoccupied with the shit coming out of your own mouth,” the Doctor shoots at him, clearly agitated.  
  
“Doctor,” Clara says quietly, shutting him down.  
  
He winces at his name falling from her lips. He can’t look at her, either. He says, “I’ll clean this up. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Doctor,” she says again.  
  
“It’s fine, Danny,” he roughly dismisses the other man.  
  
Danny hesitates, sensing the strange vibe, and asks, “You’re sure you’re all right, Clara?”  
  
“Get _out,_ ” the Doctor commands dangerously, struggling to steady his tone, and Clara knows he’s on the verge of snapping: his entire life has been altered in a split second, and Danny’s slight possessiveness over her is enough to push him over the edge.  
  
She watches the wine bleed into the rug. They’ll never get that stain out. “Danny, it’s fine,” she replies blankly. “It’s fine.”  
  
He retreats to his room uncertainly, casting her a glance back over his shoulder. The second she hears his door close, she whispers, “ _Doctor._ ”  
  
He stops in the process of carefully picking up the glass. She’d always been drawn to him, and now she knows why; but it’s shifted into something powerful, unimaginably consuming _._ Her heart is too frantic, fast; her pulse throbs in her wrist. He has a hand against his chest, fingers curled around his shirt, like the beat is literally hurting him, bruising his bones. They have _control_ over each other.  
  
He says waveringly, “No.”  
  
“No?" she asks, taken aback. “No _what?_ ”  
  
“This isn’t fair,” he says. “I’m not gonna do this to you.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“Go to bed, Clara,” he says, his voice gravelly and dark. “I can’t - I can’t handle this. Please. Please, go to bed.” He’s covering his face with a hand, rubbing his head. He can’t forget what it felt like. He never will.  
  
Her throat is hard and grainy, like she’s been swallowing hot asphalt. Tears burn in the corners of her eyes. She stands, stepping away from the rug, shuffling slowly towards her room in shock. She doesn’t know what else to do. He’s _rejecting_ her. The most important person in her life - by all means, descriptions, legends - doesn’t _want_ her.  
  
She pauses by the hallway. “Is that it?" she utters, turning around, remembering their only conversation on the subject despite her attempts to erase it. “Are you disappointed that it’s _me_ ?”  
  
He drops his arm, eyes horrified. “ _No,_ ” he breathes out. “No, Clara, that isn’t--” His inability to express himself seems to frustrate him into movement, propelling him forward. He stands up, walking over to her, but stops a respectable distance away, like he doesn’t trust himself. They stare at each other, hovering uncertainly.  
  
“I’m not disappointed,” he says finally, running a hand roughly through his hair. “You can’t think that.”  
  
“Then what?" she pushes, wanting to touch him again. Wanting to kiss him. Wanting to feel everything she’d just felt forever. “What other explanation is there?”  
  
His gaze finds her, weighted and torn. He takes a step closer. She stands still, unmoving. After what feels like an eternity, he raises a hand slowly, fingers half-curled, until--  
  
His knuckles brush against her jawline, and there’s the universe again, sprawling across the lines of his palm and the dip of her chin, and her breath catches on the inhale, spiraling until stars are being born in her lungs and her heart is too small to contain the galaxies in it.  
  
When he speaks, his voice is palpable, gentle against her lips like ocean waves. “If I could have picked anybody,” he murmurs, “it would have been you.”  
  
He drops his arm and the entirety of outer space ceases to exist, leaving her with the bare starkness of their flat around her. The world is suddenly empty, mindless. He turns away to finish cleaning up the glass, and she locks herself in her room, not understanding anything and not knowing if she really wants to, anyway.  
  
\--  
  
By the morning, she’s angry. She’s livid. They’ve been together for two months and they never even _knew_ . People go their entire lives waiting to find their soulmate, and they _did._ And now he’s _wasting_ it.  
  
She corners him in the bathroom, after he’s finished brushing his teeth; she’d woken up early to catch him before he’d left for the day. She shuts the door behind them, and he stares at her in a mix of fear and attraction, wanting to touch her and wanting to run away.  
  
She’s glaring at him. “ _Explain_ yourself,” she demands furiously. “What about me is so _terrible_ \--”  
  
“Jesus, Clara,” he interrupts, his voice unsteady. “ _Nothing._ Fuck, there’s _nothing_ wrong with you. You’re - you’re perfect.”  
  
“So what’s so terrible about _being_ with me?" she prods, and her hands are literally on her hips. It’d be comical if the situation weren’t borderline tragic.  
  
“ _Nothing,_ ” he says again, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “It’d be the best thing that ever happened to me. It already is. You already are.” He takes a breath, his arms now hanging limp at his sides, and ends with, “But you deserve better than me.” The sentence is broken and pitying, and she’s having none of it.  
  
He pushes past her, opening the door and walking away, effectively cutting off the conversation - or it would have, if she weren’t so bloody determined to discuss this with him.  
  
“What the fuck does that even _mean_ ?" she asks, following behind him. “Nobody _deserves_ anything--”  
  
Danny’s door opens loudly, squeaking. He pokes his head out, circles under his eyes, yawning. “Doctor? Clara?" he says, seeing them standing in the hallway, looking guilty. “What the hell are you _arguing_ about so early?”  
  
“Nothing,” the Doctor says darkly. “Mind your own fucking business.”  
  
“ _Jesus,_ ” Clara says, knowing his relationship with Danny is probably broken beyond repair from this point forward. Damn him for being so infatuated with her without knowing she’s the Doctor’s _soulmate._ “Danny, just - don’t worry about it, okay?”  
  
The Doctor scowls. “I’m gonna be late,” he says, marching off, but she turns on her heel and trails after him, leaving Danny baffled.  
  
She traps him in his room as he’s gathering his bag. She blocks the exit, arms crossed, leaning against the door. He says, “Clara, move.”  
  
“No.”  
  
He purses his lips. “Please.”  
  
“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” she bargains, resolute.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about this.”  
  
“I don’t care.” Her voice is deadly low. “You owe me an explanation, Doctor. You _owe_ me.”  
  
That stops him in his tracks. He meets her stare unwaveringly, and it’s like they battle it out through that one long look; he sees she won’t be deterred. And finally - _finally_ \- he gives up.  
  
He drops his bag. He takes a step forward, raising his hands, and his palms cup her cheeks, thumbs tracing underneath her eyes; she can feel flowers bloom where his fingers touch her skin. He whispers, “I’m not going to put you through hell, just so I can be happy.” She bites her lip, glued to his every word. “You said the effects of your mother’s death on your father was the worst thing you’ve ever seen. I’m over twenty years older than you, Clara. I’m not going to do that to you. You deserve someone who won’t leave.”  
  
He drops his hands, the moment ends, and she has to restrain herself from slapping him. “You think,” she begins shakingly, “that you’re going to _die_ before me?” It’s possibly the most moronic excuse she’s ever heard.  
  
“It wouldn’t be worth it for you,” he says quietly.  
  
She’s trembling with rage. She snarls coldly, “This is _my_ life _._ ” He flinches at her tone. “This is _my_ fucking life _,_ Doctor,  >and it’s not up to _you_ to decide what I do or don’t deserve!”  
  
And this time, she’s the one who walks away.  
  
\--  
  
They refuse to speak to each other for a solid week. Jack notices immediately that something’s wrong, and tries to force it out of her, but she shakes him off every time, irritated and annoyed.  
  
“The _problem,_ ” she shouts vaguely, “is that _someone_ is being _wildly unreasonable!_ ”  
  
Danny calls wearily, “Can you guys stop second-hand fighting and just _talk?_ ”  
  
“No!” She and the Doctor yell together, from different rooms.  
  
Jack shakes his head, eyeing her oddly. “I can’t believe the two of you educate young minds on a daily basis, and then come home and act like fucking _children._ ”  
  
\--  
  
After making absolutely no progress, she decides to take drastic measures.  
  
So she goes on a _date._  
  
The Doctor runs into her in the hallway, dressed up with her hair curling against her shoulders and her lips red, looking drop-dead gorgeous. He stares blankly for a solid minute, and her smirk grows and grows.  
  
She asks coyly, “See something you like?”  
  
He swallows and can’t respond.  
  
She takes a step closer to him, her stiletto heels clacking against the hardwood. Her mouth is curled hotly, arrogantly, fingers curved around her clutch. Their bodies are almost pressed together, and she can feel the heat radiating from him, like he’s about to explode. He probably is.  
  
She rests a hand on his chest to steady herself while she whispers into his ear, “Too _fucking_ bad.”  
  
Before she walks out to door, she looks at him, still frozen in place, and says, “I’ll tell you all about my date in the morning. I doubt I’ll be home tonight,” and the look of pure torture on his face is so fucking worth it.  
  
Or it _would_ ’ve been, if she didn’t hate the guy she’s on a date with.  
  
He’s annoying, never stops talking, and his passion in life is kite- _piloting_ , which he says instead of flying because it sounds more professional _,_ and explains the mechanics of it to her in vast detail for the better part of two hours while she picks aimlessly at her salad, politely nodding every so often.  
  
Finally, when she can’t take it any longer, she blurts out, “I don’t think this is going to work.”  
  
His smile drops, crestfallen. “Why not?”  
  
She purses her lips and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m waiting for my soulmate.”  
  
It’s not technically true, but it’s not technically a lie, either.  
  
\--  
  
She does come home, around one a.m., sneaking carefully into her room.  
  
Like she’d actually be able to stand touching anyone who isn’t him anymore, but _he_ doesn’t know that.  
  
\--  
  
The next morning is the most awkward, tension-filled experience any of them have ever had.  
  
She traipses into the kitchen for tea, and he’s already awake, sitting as far away from Danny as possible and reading the paper. Jack’s eating cereal, staring at the television, and is the only one who notices her enter.  
  
“G’morning,” he says tiredly, but offers her a grin. “How was your night?”  
  
The Doctor’s head snaps up, eyes finding hers. He says, in a chilly tone, “Yes, do tell, Clara. How was your _date?_ ”  
  
Jack turns slowly to him like the girl from The Exorcist, eyebrows furrowed, stalled in the middle of chewing. “What’s your problem?" he asks, mouth full. It’d been quite an aggressive response.  
  
“What _isn’t_ his problem--” Danny tacks on, but Clara shoots him a glare and shushes him, because she’s worried the Doctor might actually lose it and kill him one of these days.  
  
“My date was _great,”_ she answers coldly, spitting out every word, staring him fiercely in the eye. “We had a _wonderful_ time. I’ll probably call him later, maybe stay at his place again--”  
  
The Doctor stands abruptly, already having heard enough; it isn’t hard to set him off, these days. He pushes by her angrily to get to the front door, and she gets a glimpse of the look on his face as he passes. Her stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s _hurt._  
  
She bites her bottom lip, on the verge of shouting an apology, or running after him, _anything;_ but the door slams and the opportunity is gone, and she’s left standing there, regretting it all.  
  
Danny says, “What the fuck?”  
  
Jack gets off the kitchen counter stool, ignoring the rest of his cereal, and shoots at her, “ _You._ Come with me. Now.”  
  
He’s deadly serious for once, and she can’t ignore him; she’s in a vulnerable enough place to finally admit that maybe - _maybe_ \- they’re taking this too far. She follows him into his room, her stare focused on the floor.  
  
As they leave, Danny questions, “Why does nobody ever tell me _anything_ ?”  
  
“Get a life, Danny,” Jack calls, and the door shuts.  
  
\--  
  
Jack crosses his arms and says, “Explain. _Now._ ”  
  
She sits on the edge of his bed, her head in her hands. Her skull is throbbing, brain pounding against bone. She _hurt_ him.  
  
He says, “Clara.”  
  
She drops her arms. She can’t look at him. She says quietly, “Something happened.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that,” he says impatiently, waving her on. “ _Details_ are kind of the area I’m aiming at, sweetheart.”  
  
She mumbles a few words under her breath that he doesn’t quite catch. He leans closer. “What?”  
  
“I _said,_ ” Clara answers, “that it’s _him._ ”  
  
He’s more confused than he was previously. “What’s him?”  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” she says, agitated, running her nails across her scalp, “ _it’s him._ ”  
  
“I don’t know what that--” He starts, but pauses, finally comprehending the expression of pure misery on her face and combining it with every event from the past few weeks - the undeniable tension, the vague arguments, the _dates_ . Three, two, one… “It’s him?" he repeats slowly, never breaking eye contact. She nods once, trying not to cry. Jack is having trouble processing. “You - the two of you - you’re…like, it’s _him._ For you. And for him, it’s you. That’s what you’re telling me.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You’re _soulmates,_ ” he states in disbelief. “You and the Doctor.”  
  
“Jesus, _yes,_ Jack,” she confirms again, ignoring how it stings to hear. “Is it _that_ unbelievable--”  
  
“No!” He answers, with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. “Are you _kidding?_ It’s the most predictable pairing I’ve ever _seen. I_ could’ve arranged this. I just thought - why did it take so long? Isn’t that--”  
  
“We didn’t touch,” she explains gloomily, “until, like, two weeks ago. It was an accident.”  
  
“This is _amazing,_ ” Jack chatters excitedly, but halts. “Or, it _should_ be. Why are you fighting with him? Why are you going out  >and sleeping with people who aren’t >him?”  
  
“I’m _not,_ ” she says frustratedly. “I _want_ to be with him. Fuck, I’ve been in love with him since I moved in, basically. _He_ doesn’t want _me._ ”  
  
“There’s literally no way in hell that’s true--”  
  
She rolls her eyes and spits it out. “He thinks he’s too old for me. His excuse was that he didn’t want to _die_ before me and leave me to suffer.”  
  
Jack stares at her in shock for a solid minute before bursting into laughter, to the point where he’s wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he says, catching his breath. “That’s so fucking like him. What a dramatic _moron._ ”  
  
“I know!” Clara agrees, throwing up her hands. “I’m out of ideas, and I - I fucked up, just now. I shouldn’t have done that. I came _home_ after my date, and we didn’t even _kiss._ ”  
  
“Talk to him,” Jack says, and she supposes this all looks incredibly ridiculous from his perspective. “Go corner him again and force him to see sense. Hell, strip naked and seduce him until you fuck some reason into him, for all I fucking care. Just _do it._ ”  
  
It’s not bad advice, but she still makes him empty his entire wallet into the jar, anyway.  
  
\--  
  
So, that’s what she does.  
  
He returns later in the evening and retreats to his room, without even bothering to greet anyone else. She waits until Danny’s gone to bed - Jack’s still at work - and hesitantly knocks on the Doctor’s door, fingers tugging at the hem of her oversized t-shirt, which is the only thing she’s wearing over her underwear.  
  
She can hear him hesitating on the other side of the wood, but ultimately, the pull is too strong; he can’t resist her. He opens it a crack, and it’s all the incentive she needs.  
  
She shoves her way into the room, and he backs up warily, eyeing the flick of her wrist as she locks the door. He asks, “What are you doing?”  
  
“We’re gonna talk,” she says, moving closer to him, trying not to be distracted by the fact that he’s only wearing sweatpants. “You can’t avoid me forever. I _live_ here.”  
  
“Don’t you have a date to be on?" he asks childishly, gaze darting everywhere but at her.  
  
“No,” she answers calmly, “but I’ll find one if you don’t drop your goddamn _attitude._ ”  
  
He falters and remains silent, because ultimately, they both know that isn’t what he wants. She takes in a breath, her fingers curling around the fabric of her shirt, and she lifts it over her head in one smooth motion. His eyes grow comically wide, jaw slightly dropping as he drinks her in. She takes his inability to speak as a good sign, and for every step forward she takes, he takes one backward, until the backs of his knees are hitting his mattress and he has no choice but to sit while she looms over him.  
  
He says breathlessly, “I thought you wanted to talk.”  
  
“I do,” she murmurs, her fingertips pressing against the underside of his jaw, tilting his head up; the stars begin to align. “But there’s more than one way to have a conversation.”  
  
“Clara,” he whispers, and she has him trapped. “I don’t want hurt you.”  
  
“That’s what you’re doing,” she answers lowly. “You don’t think rejecting me _hurts_ ?”  
  
“I’m not--” he starts, fingers clenching into fists, nails digging into his bedspread. “I’m not rejecting you.”  
  
Her face draws closer; she dips her head, her lips hovering teasingly above his. His pupils are blown wide and dark; one of his hands has slipped to the back of her thigh without him realizing it. She waits, allowing the moment to build, and then--  
  
“Prove it,” she challenges dangerously, and that’s all it takes for him to snap.  
  
His fingers are suddenly knotting in her hair and he crashes her mouth against his, burning, devastating, destructive; his tongue is hot against hers and she pushes him back into the pillows, straddling him, her legs on either side of his waist. He groans at the feeling of her weight against him, her palms on his bare chest, her lips desperate. She tugs at the string of his sweatpants, her eyes hooded and black, and murmurs, “Take these off. _Now._ ”  
  
“ _Fuck,_ ” he exhales, but does as he’s told; he knows she likes being in control. She kisses him again, and he can barely breathe, let alone think; but her hips press down, and the world transforms.  
  
It’s like everything’s cracked open inside her head - like she can see the structure of the universe fluctuating, the rifts of time and space rubbing together like tectonic plates, the big bang, the end of days, and the two of them in the middle, important and significant and bigger than all of it. Whatever this is isn’t fucking. It’s not even _making love_ . It’s so beyond that, she can’t even come up with a word for it.  
  
It’s a goddamn _religious experience._ She’s ascended to a different plane of being, she swears. It’s the most incredible sex she’s had and ever will have in her _life._ And she’s sure it’s even better because of how long it actually took - all that sexual tension building up over months, all that arguing and anger, released now, like this. He has her wrists pinned down above her head - she’s not sure when he flipped their positions, but she’s sure as fuck not complaining - and he slips a hand between their bodies, fingers trailing over her stomach and dipping down, until his fingers find her clit, and then--  
  
She either blacks out for a second or just doesn’t open her eyes, because the feeling coursing through her body is so strong that she’d be content to never move again. But too soon, he’s sitting up, his head in his hands, trying not to look at her.  
  
He says, “We shouldn’t have done that,” and just as quickly as the universe is born, it is destroyed again.  
  
She can’t fight it anymore. “Fine,” she whispers, hot tears filling her eyes. She finds her shirt and slips it back on, not having the energy to convince him any further, not knowing what to say or do or feel.  
  
She has her hand on the doorknob when he says, “Nothing else will ever compare. That isn’t what I wanted,” but she doesn’t have the strength or patience to analyze what that means, and so she doesn’t.  
  
\--  
  
Clara avoids Jack the next day; she intends to avoid the Doctor, too, but he’s gone before she even wakes up. The only person she runs into is Danny, who - on today, of all days - finally works up the nerve to ask her out, aided by the lack of interruptions.  
  
She opens her mouth, intending to say no, but then she thinks - _why?_ Why say no? It’s not like she has another option, after last night--  
  
“Sure,” she says instead, completely against her better judgment, because she’s lacking that at the moment.  
  
He looks like all of his wildest dreams have come true; hers have already been shattered. He says, trying to downplay his excitement, “Ace, okay. How’s seven tomorrow night sound?”  
  
“Great,” she answers, barely even realizing what she’s agreeing to. “Can’t wait.”  
  
She locks herself in her room for the rest of the evening and doesn’t speak to anyone. Jack comes knocking around ten, having heard the news, but she refuses to answer and he eventually leaves her alone, which is exactly what she didn’t want in the first place.  
  
\--  
  
The Doctor, of course, only ends up crossing paths with her at all as she and Danny are about to leave. She’s half-heartedly done up, but she still looks good, and she can tell Danny doesn’t really care either way.  
  
To _him,_ though, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, and he thinks that every single time she catches his eye, and she knows this to be true because it’s how _she_ feels, too.  
  
He stares at her, trying to tear his gaze away and failing. It’s different after sleeping with him. Everything is different. Nothing else matters when they’re in a room together; the pull is overpowering, unbeatable.  
  
Or it would be, if he hadn’t turned her down over and over again.  
  
She offers him a small, sad smile, and walks out the door with someone else’s hand pressing against her back.  
  
\--  
  
It’s not the worst date she’s ever been on, and Danny isn’t the worst person she’s ever been on a date _with._ But it’s wrong. It’s wrong being with him, it’s wrong touching him, it’s wrong laughing with him in the context he believes it to be in. And it’ll never be right. That’s the problem.  
  
After two weeks of this, Danny sprawls next to Jack on the couch and says, “Man, I need help.”  
  
“I told you,” Jack says, deliberately not looking at him. “I told you not to go out with her.”  
  
“Yeah, but why _wouldn’t_ I?" he asks, and it’s a question he’s posed many times before. “Like, literally, what possible reason do I have for refusing? I really like her.”  
  
Jack purses his lips. He knows this is fated to fall apart. “A big reason,” he says, and that’s all.  
  
“Whatever,” Danny replies, blowing him off. “Anyway - I just feel like she’s totally disinterested, y’know? But she keeps saying yes when I ask her out. I don’t get >it. She kissed me _once_ and then didn’t talk to me for three days. What am I doing wrong _?_ ”  
  
The front door opens; Clara comes traipsing in, bags of groceries in her hands. She glances up and gives them both a short smile. “Oh, hello,” she says.  
  
She looks _tired_ , like her bones are aching under the weight of her loneliness, like trying this hard every day is destroying her. Danny says, “Hey, Clara.” Jack just hums, glaring at her.  
  
She turns away and ignores him, putting her vegetables in the refrigerator; she freezes midway through shutting the door, staring down the hallway. The Doctor comes into view a moment later, his phone in his hand, expression closed-off and cold. He doesn’t speak for a second, just stands there, meeting her gaze.  
  
Danny clears his throat. The Doctor shifts, his eyes falling to his phone. He says, “Ten’s back in town tomorrow and wants to know if he can stay here for a few days.”  
  
Danny shrugs. “Sure.”  
  
Jack asks, “Where’s Rose? Why isn’t he staying with her?”  
  
“They’re moving, actually, but Rose is staying with her mum - Jackie’s ill.”  
  
“Ah,” Jack says. “Okay, cool. He can share my bed.”  
  
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” the Doctor answers sarcastically. He hesitates, and says, “Clara?”  
  
Her name dropping from his mouth literally makes her flinch; nobody else notices but him.  She whispers, “Fine.” She shifts to the left, farther from him, and begins stocking her cupboard, just to give herself a distraction. “Fine,” she says again, louder.  
  
“Great,” he replies shortly, and walks out. There’s a tense silence as she lingers on his retreating back, and then his door slams shut, causing her to flinch again. Even Danny notices it, this time.  
  
“Clara?" he asks carefully. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” she responds instantly, her voice unsteady and unbelievable.  
  
“Come on, you don’t have to lie to me,” Danny prods easily, and Jack’s already feeling wildly uncomfortable. “You guys have been fighting for weeks now. You think I didn’t notice?”  
  
“No,” she says. “No, I didn’t think that.” Their ongoing standoff has been pretty hard to miss; she’s not _delusional._  
  
Danny gets to his feet and walks closer to her, apparently preparing to comfort her should the opportunity arise. “So what is it? You used to be friends. Did he do something to upset you?”  
  
He places a hand gently on her arm, and out of everything, that’s what does it.  
  
She knocks his arm away, her lips trembling, and repeats, “Did he _upset_ me?" She laughs once in disbelief, but the sound is eery, an odd timbre. Something white-hot and angry unfurls in her chest, her skin burning, her face red, tears welling. “I don’t know, Danny. How would you feel if you found your _soulmate_ and they decided they didn’t want you?" she waits for an answer, and when one doesn’t come, she spins and storms off. “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” she calls over her shoulder, slamming her own door.  
  
Danny stands there, uncomprehending, jaw dropped. Jack grimaces. Clara’s not exactly one for tact when she’s hurt, but then again, Danny’s an oblivious moron who kept asking her out when she clearly wasn’t interested, so--  
  
Jack sighs. “I’m sorry you had to find out like that. She’s not handling it well.”  
  
He turns around. “ _That’s_ the reason?" he asks blankly. “They’re - the two of them are soulmates, and he doesn’t _want_ her?”  
  
Jack shrugs. He’s pretty sure that isn’t the whole story, but he hasn’t pried enough with the Doctor to find out. “I don’t know,” Jack answers honestly. “He’s given her a few excuses, but I don’t think any of them are true.”  
  
Danny clenches his jaw, nods once, and walks away.  
  
\--  
  
When the Doctor opens his door, he certainly doesn’t expect to find the man who’d been going out with his - well. His - whatever.  
  
Danny shoves his way into the room and snarls, “Are you a _fucking idiot_ ?”  
  
The Doctor scoffs, “On the contrary--”  
  
“Not the fucking time,” Danny says furiously. “She’s literally _perfect -_ I’m not even meant to be with her, and I can see that - she’s perfect _for you,_ and you’re pushing her away?”  
  
He furrows his eyebrows, drawing back instantly. “Did she tell you?”  
  
“Yeah, after having a bloody breakdown just now--”  
  
“It’s none of your business,” he says firmly.  
  
Danny locks dead on him. “None of my--” He breaks off, fingers curling into fists. “She _used_ me because you fucked her over. It is my fucking business, thanks.”  
  
The Doctor frowns, gaze focused on the floor. “I didn’t make her do anything,” he says, and that part is only half a lie. “I wanted her to be happy. Just not with me.”  
  
Danny stops, processing his words, their actual meaning, the complete absurdity of the entire situation; and then says quietly, “Do you really think this is making her _happy_ ? Forcing her to be with someone else?”  
  
“I thought--” He looks lost, now, and Danny’s picking at the real truth, tucked away. “I thought if she didn’t...know what it was like, it’d be easier. But that didn’t - work out.”  
  
“ _Obviously not,_ ” Danny hisses. “Because when you _find the person you’re meant to be with, you’re supposed to be with them._ ”  
  
“I am answerable to _no one,_ ” the Doctor growls in response. “I’ve made it my entire life alone and I’ve been _fine._ ”  
  
Danny pauses, staring him down. “That’s it, innit?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re _scared._ ” He sneers. “How pathetic. You’re scared of her. You’re scared of giving up your life to her. You don’t _want_ her to know how much you care because you’d rather protect _yourself_ than protect her.” He spits out, “You don’t _deserve_ a soulmate.”  
  
Those are the words he leaves the Doctor with, and they hurt as much as the truth always does.  
  
\--  
  
Danny takes the betrayal to heart, and, as he tells Jack, he’d seen the Doctor’s face yesterday. He knows their stalemate won’t last. He and Clara will end up together, as they’re meant to, and he doesn’t want to be there to witness it.  
  
He moves out the day Ten arrives.  
  
Ten enters to a group of somber expressions, distant and isolated, a big grin on his face. He tells them all, “I have to say, I’m a bit stunned. I expected more of an upbeat greeting. A welcome party.” He stalls a moment. “Has someone died?”  
  
“No,” Jack says. “Our flatmate left today. For good.” His voice gets duller. “Guess that means you can have his room.”  
  
“Excellent!” Ten beams.  
  
He strides over to Clara. “You, I’m unfamiliar with,” he says. “I’m Ten.”  
  
“Interesting name,” she responds, trying to be cheerful. “I’m Clara. Oswald.”  
  
“Lovely to meet you, Clara,” he says, taking her hand and kissing it without hesitation, dropping it just as fast. She recognizes the signs: he’s met his soulmate already. He doesn’t think about the implications of touching someone anymore.  
  
She feels compelled to ask. “When did you meet your soulmate?”  
  
His grin explodes. He informs her happily, “Ah, observant one, aren’t you? Her name’s Rose. ‘Bout ten years ago.”  
  
She smiles softly. “I bet it’s nice.”  
  
“It’s the best thing in the world,” Ten agrees enthusiastically. The Doctor studiously avoids looking at either of them. “I study it, actually. To a degree.”  
  
“The soulmate?” Clara asks, interest peaked.  
  
“Yes,” he says. “I’m a professor, too - that’s where the Doctor and I met. My area is theoretical physics. Quantum theory,” he adds in plainer terms. “I’ve dabbled in cosmology, too.”  
  
“And what have you discovered?" she presses, enthralled. Even Jack’s listening.  
  
He’s clearly passionate about the topic; he dives right in without another prompt. “Well, nothing has been _discovered,_ exactly,” he explains. “It’s theoretical, meaning it’s exactly what it sounds like - theory. We’ve a lot of ideas surrounding the phenomenon, but none that can be proven, of course. However, the most recent theory does actually have a basis in reality.” He pauses for breath. “Essentially, soulmates are based in the _soul._ That’s another thing we can’t exactly explore or dissect, because it isn’t visible. But what we do know is that it is composed of energy, and energy can’t be created or destroyed. The soul can’t just hover around when the body dissipates as a free-floating object. We think the soul is attached to atoms. Very specific atoms, arrangements of atoms, possibly.”  
  
“Further explanation,” the Doctor says suddenly, looking at Jack, who has a puzzled expression on his face.  
  
Ten continues, “Atoms, molecules are transient - they don’t die completely or disappear, much like energy. They shift, they move, on subatomic levels. Your body is made of atoms forged at the beginning of the universe. There are molecules in your water that once probably lived in the body of Galileo. So our theory is that atoms who were attracted together during that first explosion - the Big Bang - make up the base for the soulmate. Atoms that eventually became _us,_ making the soul something tangible _._ Their attraction never stops - it just moves, from one body to the next. That’s why people remember ‘past lives.’ That’s how we find our soulmates. Their atoms retain that energy. And your soulmate is the person whose atoms yours were with at the beginning of time. Of space. Of life. Of everything.”  
  
“Wow,” Jack says. “Holy shit. That’s awesome. Kinda wanna find mine, now.”  
  
“That’s what it feels like,” the Doctor says bizarrely, and Clara meets his eyes, knowing; it’s like they’re staring through each other, into something farther. “The Big Bang. That’s what it feels like.”  
  
“Exactly,” Ten affirms. “It’s the memory. That’s how you know you’ve found your soulmate - your atoms meet and recreate that original explosion between your bodies. It’s the memory of the creation of the universe.” He stops, suddenly staring at the Doctor like he’s never seen him before. “Wait a minute,” he says. “How do you know that?”  
  
The Doctor stands abruptly and walks away, running a hand through his hair, not looking back. Clara watches him go, melancholic and complacent, resigned. Her stare falls to the red-stained rug.  
  
Ten glances at Jack. “Did he--?”  
  
“Yes,” Clara answers quietly for him. “He did.”  
  
Ten understands immediately. “Oh,” he says, and doesn’t say anything more, and that’s that.  
  
\--  
  
The next day, Ten calls Rose - who’s completely fine with the idea of living with them until they get their own place - and that night, his movers arrive. They all pitch in; even the Doctor traipses back out after confining himself to his room for the past twenty-four hours to carry up some of the heavier items. Finally, everything is completed except his bed frame, which Jack volunteers to help with, leaving the Doctor and Clara standing in the entryway as Jack and Ten close themselves in Ten’s room, chattering about what’s changed in their lives.  
  
They stand a few feet apart, staring at each other. She has one hand curled around her other elbow, a half-defense. He doesn’t seem to have the intention of running away this time. The air is thick, rolling over.  
  
She says softly, “Yesterday, he made me wonder.”  
  
The Doctor’s hands are in his pockets. “About?" he asks, just as quiet.  
  
“How many times we’ve met,” she answers. “How many times we’ve been together. How long we’ve spent searching.” Her eyes glance aimlessly around the room; he’s too hard too look at. “I like to think we were happy together, once, even if it isn’t now.”  
  
He can sense the longing, the loneliness, and -- it’s so stupid, he realizes then. So _pointless._  
  
The tension hits a breaking point. “I’m afraid of you,” he confesses at last, exhausted of having to fight it any longer. It starts and doesn’t stop. “I was...resigned, you know. I figured I’d just never meet you. It’d been so long and I watched everyone I knew find their - everything, their fucking _reason for being_ , until it was only me.” He pauses, stepping closer to her. “There were people I cared about who left. Or faded away. I’ve been alone a long time and it’s all I know, anymore. I’m tired of being alone but it’s all I have.”  
  
This is everything she’s waited to hear. He draws closer still. Cars fly by outside, their horns a distant melody. “Why now?" she murmurs shakingly. “What prompted this?”  
  
“Ten made me realize--” He halts, and begins again, lifting a hand to trace the curve of her cheek. Takes in a breath. The room shudders. “I’ll find you,” he says lowly. “I’ll come back for you. I swear. Every time. Every life.”  
  
And he kisses her.  
  
Intensely, passionately, like the goddamn world is ending, he kisses her; her fingers curl against his scalp, his arms around her waist, pulling her as close to him as possible. She thinks about atoms and the creation of time and space and the two of them, finding each other against all odds, in spite of every obstacle, every broken path. She swears she can feel those years between them, the years they’ve spent together and the years they’ve spent apart, like bridges building up and burning.  
  
He says breathlessly, “I’m sorry. Clara, I’m so sorry.”  
  
So she replies, “I love you,” and her lips find his again, and again, and again.  
  
\--  
  
Afterwards, they’re curled up in his bed, talking like they should’ve been all along. He tells her about his entire life, his childhood and his family, his hometown, everything he can remember; she gives him the same, showing him pictures, videos. Eventually, the room quiets into smaller, significant moments, transitions.  
  
He says, “I knew it was you, you know,” his fingers stroking the line of her jaw.  
  
“How?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” he answers honestly. “But that first day - it was instantaneous. I fell in love with you then. I knew. I’ve known it was you since you walked through that door.”  
  
“I felt it, too,” she confesses. She throws a leg over his hips, nudging closer. “You’re the reason I moved in. I had a crush on you for so long - Jack used to tease me about it constantly.”  
  
He laughs lowly; his chest rumbles. He says, “ _I_ noticed. D’you really think I actually spend this much time walking around in only sweatpants?”  
  
She giggles into his shoulder, and lifts herself onto her knees, straddling his hips again. His hands rest on her waist. She says, “You were turning me on _on purpose?_ ”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
She frowns. “Sneaky.”  
  
“You saw what I did to Danny, every time he tried to ask you out--”  
  
“I _knew_ you weren’t that thick,” she exclaims, and he laughs again. “Well, no, I didn’t - Jack pointed it out to me, and _then_ I noticed. You were pretty unsubtle.” She pauses. “For the record - I didn’t sleep with him. I did kiss him, once, but then I shut down and didn’t talk to him because it had felt so wrong. I didn’t sleep with the other bloke, either.”  
  
The relief across his face is visible, but he suppresses it.  “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” he replies neutrally. “I pushed you away. It isn’t my place. But I won’t lie and say I’m not at least happy about it.”  
  
She smiles, bends down and kisses him. “Did I do anything that turned you on?" she teases, lifting the subject.  
  
He snorts. “Have you seen yourself? Clara.” He pinches her side lightly and she giggles again, smacking his arm, ticklish. “Everything you did drove me mad. You bite your lip when you’re thinking - more than once I had to stop myself from telling you off about it. And when you’re stressed, you play with your hair - it ends up looking disheveled, more curly than normal. I loved it.” He takes one of her hands and brings it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “I don’t know,” he hums. “You’re beautiful. And intelligent, and witty, and funny - you’re perfect.”  
  
“For you,” she says, grinning.  
  
“For me,” he agrees, and it’s all either of them need.  
  
\--  
  
Nobody comments the next morning when they find the two of them sitting together on the couch, Clara’s head on the Doctor’s shoulder, drinking tea and watching the news. Ten smiles brightly, and Jack salutes them before heading off to work.  
  
Clara stops Ten as he’s going into his room and says, “Thanks.”  
  
He winks at them and replies, “Really puts it into perspective, doesn’t it?”  
  
Even the Doctor smiles slightly. He answers, “Yeah. Really does.”  
  
\--  
  
Clara _loves_ Rose. And likewise, Rose loves her.  
  
They get along outstandingly well - they watch all the same television shows, like similar music, and generally enjoy each other - and it’s great having someone to talk to when their respective boyfriends spend hours talking about physics and quantum theory and ‘the statistical probability that we are a shadow of a different universe,’ whatever the fuck that means. Having a soulmate doesn’t mean you don’t need friends, something she and Rose understand perfectly.  
  
“I’m glad you’re here,” Clara says one afternoon, when they’re grabbing groceries at M&S. . “Can’t imagine having to put up with him _all_ the time.”  
  
“Likewise,” Rose says. “Hey, did you see _The Black Keys_ are playing here in a few weeks?”  
  
“I meant to tell you, I saw that too - d’you wanna go?”  
  
“Oh, absolutely,” Rose trills, taking a carton of eggs and setting it gingerly in the cart.  
  
“I’ll grab tickets,” Clara answers, mindlessly examining a stack of iceberg lettuce. “Don’t think they’ve gone on sale yet.”  
  
“Excellent, I’ll get you back.” Rose squints at the grocery list. “Fresh basil.”  
  
“Cheers. What film should we watch tonight, by the way?” Clara asks. “Our choice - needs to be something good, considering the boys made us watch _The Hobbit_ last time.”  
  
Rose shudders. “Jesus, I thought it’d never end--”  
  
They get home and announce the movie of the night is _The Woman in Black,_ holding back grins when Ten’s jaw drops in horror and the Doctor sighs. They both hate scary movies, because they can’t always explain the paranormal occurences away with science, but they can’t argue.  
  
Clara curls up on the couch next to the Doctor and says, “You ready?” As Rose points the remote at the telly and presses play.  
  
“No,” he says solemnly. “I’ll probably have to sleep in your bed tonight.”  
  
On the other sofa, Rose is wiggling her fingers at Ten and whispering, “They’re coming for you…”  
  
Ten says loudly, “Why does it always have to be _ghosts_ ? Why can’t we watch films about werewolves?”  
  
Rose smirks and says, “Hang on, let me turn out the lights.”  
  
Ten groans, but Clara turns and presses a kiss to the Doctor’s mouth. He says, “I would sacrifice myself to the spirits for you. Just so you know.”  
  
She laughs. “Thanks, dear.”  
  
\--  
  
After three months, Clara notices how despondent Jack’s become. She thinks living with people who’ve found their soulmates is getting to him; he dodges hanging out with them as much, spends more time out or in his room. He walks in after a shift one night - the Doctor’s already in bed, and Rose and Ten are out - and she’s in the kitchen getting a glass of water.  
  
She stops him and says, “Hey, Jack--”  
  
He halts on his way to his room. He asks, “What’s it like?”  
  
She pauses. “What?”  
  
He doesn’t turn to face her. “You know,” he says. “Having a soulmate. What’s it like?”  
  
She’s entirely caught off-guard by the question; it’s something she’s never actually had to articulate before. She’s thoughtfully quiet for a moment, the glass cool against her fingertips.  
  
She asks, “What do you see around you?”  
  
He makes a face; his head tilts slightly. “Dunno,” he says. “We’re just standing in the kitchen.”  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees, “but - being with him is like...everything and nothing exists all at once. We’re standing in the kitchen, but I can see beyond this and behind it, a million years from now and a million years ago, somewhere in the universe, it’s him and I. It’s like everything else is muted, somehow. Like existentialism - my life matters, and the people in my life matter, and my job matters. It matters more than anything because it’s happening now, and I’m with him, but in the grand scheme of things, I’ll always be with him and I’m safe and I’m home. That’s what it feels like. Just being at home, where nothing can hurt you.”  
  
Jack’s silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, he just says, “Thanks,” and stalks away to his room, shutting the door quietly behind him.  
  
\--  
  
She tells the Doctor about the encounter, and his grimace is pained, uncomfortable. He draws her close and says, “I know how he feels.” He kisses the top of her head. “I’m glad I don’t feel that way anymore.”  
  
“Do you think I should’ve lied?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What do you think?" she asks. “From your perspective - what’s it like, having me?”  
  
He plays with the ends of her hair absentmindedly, thinking. He says, “Similar to what you answered, but…” He trails off. “There’s a desperation. I’d go to the end of the universe for you. I’d destroy time itself to be with you forever.”  
  
“Yeah,” she finds herself agreeing. She’d never explored that side of it, but looking within herself, she feels that, too. That ache. That _never let you go._ “I understand that, too.”  
  
“Well,” he says, smiling, “thankfully neither of us have a time machine.”  
  
\--  
  
She makes it a point to spend more time with Jack alone, and lets Rose and Ten in on the situation, and slowly Jack’s mood starts to improve again. She realizes they’d been accidentally leaving him out of things, consumed by her suddenly charmed life.  
  
They’re able to continue on how they were, until one evening when Jack rushes through the door, and screams, “It happened!”  
  
Rose comes rushing out of the bathroom, clad only in a towel, bewildered. The Doctor and Clara, who’d been cooking dinner, drop a pan and an egg respectively, cursing. Ten pokes his head out of his room.  
  
“What the fuck?” Clara calls.  
  
“I met him!” Jack keeps shouting. “I met my soulmate!”  
  
Rose says, forgetting she’s naked, “Well, where is he?”  
  
“He’s downstairs. I told him I needed to warn you all first. I think we should play True American.” He’s speaking incredibly fast. “His name is Ianto, I’ve met him a few times at the bar, but tonight was the first time we touched, and oh, man. You losers weren’t joking. That shit is _intense._ ”  
  
Clara starts laughing. “You want to play your frat game with your soulmate? Right now?”  
  
Jack shrugs. “Sure. I’ve told him about it before and he thinks it’s hilarious. We’re both kind of wasted already, actually.”  
  
None of them are surprised. People always buy Jack drinks at work. Rose says, “Okay. It _is_ Friday. Might as well.”  
  
The Doctor sighs, but obediently starts getting beer cans out of the fridge.  
  
\--  
  
Ianto is sweet, and he and Jack interact like they’ve known each other for years; he can take Jack’s jokes, and deliver them right back with the same snark. The game makes no sense and Ianto keeps accusing Jack of making up rules as they play, but they’re all so drunk that it doesn’t even matter. The Doctor’s awful at holding his liquor, but incredible at shotgunning; Ten makes the shot into the recycling bin every time _junk yard_ is called, but keeps moving when it isn’t his turn; Rose and Clara are standing on the same chair, hugging and laughing hysterically. Ianto’s favourite part is screaming “JFK!” Which forces everyone to yell “FDR” and finish their beers. Probably because it’s the only concrete rule he’s managed to grasp.  
  
“This is so offensive to everyone in this flat besides you,” he babbles loudly. “Where’s True Englishman? True Scottsman?" he adds for the Doctor’s benefit.  
  
“True Scottsman would end in two teams bludgeoning each other in the middle of the Highlands,” Jack points out. “Too angry and bloody for a drinking game. True Englishman would be like, ‘Oh, right, ‘bout that time, innit, chaps?’”  
  
Clara laughs so hard she falls off the chair, leaving Rose scrambling to steady herself as she berates him for such a poor impression.  
  
Jack implements the Clinton rules halfway through - meaning they have to strip if they fail various tasks - and the Doctor ends up famously in his sweatpants; Jack’s in his boxer briefs on purpose; Ten is somehow wearing Rose’s shirt as she points and laughs. Clara ends up having to take off her button-down and stares the Doctor in the eye the whole time, biting her lip and undoing every button as slowly as possibly while Jack wolf-whistles.  
  
Ten passes out on a pile of cushions underneath the kitchen table; Rose tries to move him herself to no avail, and instead falls asleep on top of him after getting tired of trying. Ianto and Jack stay up late laughing and talking - Clara’s pretty sure they draw all over Ten and Rose with a black marker (Clara had banned all sharpies from the flat after the last game of True American) - and she takes the Doctor back to bed, stumbling and unsteady, but his mouth and his hands are confident. His tongue presses roughly against her and she gasps, her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips moving; she drags his head back up and their lips find each other in the dark, messy and perfect. He slips inside of her and she moans, her nails raking over his spine, her head thrown back, his mouth sucking at the crook of her neck.  
  
She closes her eyes and she swears she sees the birth of the universe all over again.  
  
\--  
  
They’re forced awake by Ten shouting Jack’s name as Rose’s laugh echoes out in hysterics; he slams Jack’s door open and all they hear is, “Stop drawing _cocks_ on my face when I’m smashed!” And then: “Put some _fucking_ clothes on!”  
  
Clara looks at the Doctor, who’s blinking through his hangover at her, holding a hand to his head. He grumbles out, “We should _really_ get our own place,” and promptly falls back asleep.  
  
She smiles, throwing a leg over his waist and burying her face against his shoulder. She wouldn’t trade this for the world.  
  
\--  
  
Time moves differently, the Doctor’s noticed.  
  
He and Ten talk about this side-effect extensively, but ultimately, they don’t reach a conclusion as to why. There’s suddenly more and less of it simultaneously, he explains. It’s perspective. We feel it all.  
  
He starts measuring time by the length and cut of her hair, the varying students in her classes she starts and stops complaining about, and her reactions to who’s voted off _Strictly Come Dancing_ . He can categorize his months by what she wears in the rain and every individual smile on sunny days, or how she complains about snow, drags him for walks in the fall. The way he perceives life, the world, the universe is altered because of her.  
  
They’re lying on the couch and she’s dozing off against his chest, wearing his oversized blue jumper and not much else, with a blanket over her waist and her fingers curled around his shirt. Jack and Ianto are at the kitchen table, doing the morning paper’s daily crossword puzzle together, and Rose and Ten are spread out on the other sofa, watching the football game and rooting for different teams, yelling at the telly.  
  
Behind them, he hears Jack ask, “What is it?”  
  
Ianto says, “Oh, nothing. I was only thinking. Six down is _blitz,_ by the way.”  
  
Jack scratches in the appropriate answer. “About?”  
  
“Well,” he starts, rubbing the back of his head abashedly; Rose cranes her neck to listen, catching his eye, “it’s just - looking at us all, y’know, I finally get what all the fuss is about. I did before - with you, Jack, obviously - but this is...more, somehow.”  
  
It’s really an understatement, but the sentiment is soft and airy, wafting through the room. The Doctor runs his fingers through Clara’s hair and down her back, and she stirs slightly, burrowing closer to him.  
  
Ten looks at Rose and grins. “You’re all right, I guess,” he says, and she laughs and throws a cushion at him.  
  
“Well, it’s enough, isn’t it?" the Doctor poses rhetorically, and everyone stops to take it in. “It’s not perfect, but none of us will never need more or less than this. We’ll never want anything else. This is enough.” He traces the dip of her spine gently. “I realize it doesn’t sound like a particularly romantic idea, but what isn’t romantic about being completely satisfied and content with what you have? What isn’t romantic about being in love with every aspect of your own life?”  
  
Clara giggles tiredly against his chest; of course she’d woken up for this. “You’re right,” she mumbles out. “It doesn’t sound romantic, but I understand. You’re enough for me, too.”  
  
“Am I?”  
  
“No,” she says, smirking lightly, and Ten laughs loudly. “You could use some work. You’re completely soulless.”  
  
“ _You’re_ an egomaniac.”  
  
“Yeah, well, _you’re_ an--”  
  
“Come on, you two,” Jack cuts in on their bickering. “Don’t fight in front of the children.”  
  
Rose snorts. “Clara wakes up raring for an argument. It’s their foreplay.”  
  
Clara laughs, burrowing closer to him. “Shut up, Rose,” she says. “I’m sleeping.”  
  
“Sure, sure,” Rose replies teasingly, drinking her beer and then leaning forward to kiss Ten softly on the mouth. She’d clearly been affected. They all had. “Love you.”  
  
“Oh, you know,” he says, his expression tender, and she does.  
  
Ianto and Jack continue working on their crossword, murmuring in hushed voices; Ten groans as Rose’s team scores a goal and she raises two fingers at him jokingly; the Doctor turns a page of his book, touching his lips to the top of Clara’s head. She snores softly, once. The sunlight filters through the dust, mimicking the glow of a thousand stars, a billion worlds. He thinks of the entirety of time and space, and how many versions of the two of them are out there, happy and in love and home.  
  
“I know what we are,” she whispers suddenly, words slurred from sleep.  
  
“And what is that?" he asks, adjusting his glasses on his nose.  
  
“Me and you,” she murmurs, “we’re the greatest love story ever told.”  
  
He closes his book gently, marking the page, and tosses it to the side. He wraps both arms around her and hums, slipping his hands underneath her jumper and pressing them against her skin, warm and soft. The universe hums between them, static and malleable, infinite and boundless and beautiful.  
  
He says quietly, smiling, “I think you’re right.”  
  
It’s enough.  
  



End file.
